


found in the ashes

by cptsuke



Category: The Magnificent Seven (2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Everybody Lives, M/M, everybody dies/everybody lives au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-23
Updated: 2017-07-31
Packaged: 2018-12-02 21:33:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 14,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11517906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cptsuke/pseuds/cptsuke
Summary: Faraday's died before, a time or two, he might not have expected to survive the dynamite, but then he hadn't expected to bring all his expired friends back with him either.Newly resurrected Faraday&co go off to find the rest of the seven and maybe bring some thieves to justice. Or maybe just get straight back into hot water.





	1. faraday&goodnight

**Author's Note:**

> this is basically an attempt to jam my fuckyoutheylive au into the canon of the four getting graves.  
> im not tagging it major character death, which i hope doesn't upset anyone, lmk tho.

**FARADAY**

 

The Undying are selfish. There's a thousand and one rumours and legends floating around the untamed west, but that is known just assuredly as fire was the only way to properly end an Undying.

Everyone had a story, but few spoke from experience.

 

Faraday wakes in soil. It's pressing all around him- _in him_ – and it takes more than a few good moments for him to realize he's alive. For the given value of 'alive', anyway. He has consciousness, even if it feels like most of his body's in strips.

(it's not, it can't be, not if he's together enough to be breathing with punctured lungs)

He hasn't been buried since his first time, when his mother and he had succumbed to the same sickness they'd been heading to the dry air of the west to stave off, but the slow awakening underground hasn't improved in the score of years since that time.

Coming back feels like it takes forever. Maybe it actually does.

In the past it's taken Faraday about a day to come back; he's managed to do it in hours some of the times, and a couple of days other times. But it's always with the dawning day, mid morning, almost noon if he's taking his time.

There's no way of telling how much time has passed since Bogue, his men and that bloody day - there's no exact science to this that he's ever found, excepting the morning heralding a Return – but Lord knows he didn't expect to come back this time.

Dynamite was just about as close to fire as anything could be and even now Faraday can feel how incomplete what's left of him is.

Rose Creek's good folk had buried as much of him as was left, a leftover from an old world superstition that he's never been more grateful for.

What's been burnt away he replaces with soil, pulling at the dry lifeless dust til it remembers all the blood that's been spent upon it. He pulls a little too hard, spreads himself out too far maybe, but he feels the throb of life beyond himself, beyond the spilled blood. He feels life and reaches for it. They're familiar, the ones resting with him.

Mostly fine, he thinks, their bodies barely even broke for all that life's left them, and it takes way less time to encourage the flesh to knit - to call life back into veins - than it did for himself

It's not impossible, it can't be, though even if it was, Faraday's always liked the idea of doing something said to be impossible.

Just because a thing wasn't done, didn't mean it _couldn't_ be _._

 

It just about kills him - and Faraday does not say that lightly – and by the time he feels the bodies lying in the ground with him move and wake, he barely has the energy to dig himself out of his own grave.

As it is, hands push through the dirt he's shrouded in, grab him by limb and clothes and pull him upwards.

And finally.

Finally there is air.

He hacks up what feels like half a desert on hands and knees, braced on all sides. Goodnight and Billy flanking him and Jack Horne with more strength in his hands than Faraday has in his whole body holds him upright, heavy hands under his arms hoisting him completely from the grave.

He's loathe to call it magic, but whatever this thing is, it's only present in death. As soon as he's Returned it goes silent and dormant, and Faraday carries his aches and wounds just as poorly as any man.

Now he's awake, he's no more magic than his horse.

 

It's a wonder he didn't accidentally resurrect half the town, Faraday thinks as he realizes what he'd done, though he has no idea if he could even do that. But then again, yesterday he'd had no idea he could bring another man back with him, let alone all his fallen companions.

That mystery is solved when he looks around and finds himself on a hill. It's just him and his fallen friends buried together, looking down on a familiar town.

 

Faraday breathes. Breathes again. Revels in the sound of harsh panting surrounding him for a moment before drawing a deep breath and asking in a death-rasp of a voice. “Did we win?”

Goodnight's dry laughter rings out as Billy shakes with silent mirth and no answer is really needed. No one buries the enemy in neat separate little graves with markings carved with care.

Down below, the church bell rings out, its doors opening for townfolk to stream out.

“Would you look at that,” Goodnight says with a touch of wonder in his voice. “Resurrected on a Sunday.”

Faraday takes a moment. He's got his guns, filled with with sand and in desperate need of a clean though they are, and his clothes are mended, stitched careful like and washed, though the cloth remains stained. His flask is missing, which is a sad sorry state of affairs as far as Faraday's concerned, but he knows just which sentimental bastard is probably carrying it around.

It's something of a novelty, if he actually thinks about it, being buried by those that would take a keepsake.

Doesn't mean he won't be taking his flask back – filled to the brim preferably – just as soon as he found duly sworn warrant officer Chisholm, the lone Comanche and one overly sentimental vaquero.

He's Returned. But not whole, he realizes, what his hip - poorly rebuilt with sand - holds together, but there's a reason fire killed the Undying. Can't heal what's been burnt completely away.

His leg – his hip, no doubt shattered by the last bullet that took him to his knees – grinds uncomfortably when he walks and slowly starts to feel like it's going to become a fierce ache over the day's passing.

He tries to pass the stiffness off as an after effect of being newly risen as they stand and take stock. Goodnight gives him something of a look which has Billy giving him one of his unreadable ones, but Faraday ignores them til Goodnight starts making noises about going down into town.

Faraday prefers to skulk off into the unknown, given the choice. But they've no way of finding the fate of their friends and the others seem determined to announce their resurrection to the good folk of Rose Creek, so Faraday finds himself following them. Even he can't deny that he's curious to hear what happened to Sam, Red and Vasquez.

 

 

**GOODNIGHT**

 

Goodnight Robicheaux does not expect to wake. His last memory is of a bright burning pain, the sensation of falling and then nothing.

And now his eyes open in complete darkness

He'd never seen Billy die but he knows.

Oh, he _knows_.

But Goodnight's alive now, when he knows he was not before, and Goodnight hopes, as he has never hoped before, that the world saw fit to do him a single kindness. And that when he gets above ground, Billy might be waiting for him.

His casket isn't made particularly well, doesn't take him long to break out of it, and when he's finally above ground, he finds himself buried on the rise that overlooked Rose Creek. The sentiment was kind, but the hill's stony ground had no doubt put the town's kindness to the test. But Goodnight finds himself thankful for that small grace, the end result being the shallow grave he'd been buried in, grateful to not having to dig himself out from an entire six foot of dirt.

Familiar hands pull him the last inches into daylight and fresh air. He'd not have been as foolish enough to believe Billy would survive where Goodnight had not, but Lord, _oh Lord_ , had he _hoped._

Still Billy Rocks' beautiful face is the first and best thing Goodnight has ever been blessed with. Billy gives him a moment of space, that Goodnight immediately breaks, throwing his arm around his shoulders and pulling him close.

Billy had died for him, it made the right sort of sense that Goodnight tries his best to live for him this time.

Goodnight lets himself take the time to truly appreciate the strength in Billy's arms as he clutched back at him.

Beside them Jack is sitting in front of a cross that bares his name, an unreadable look on his face. There's just one grave left between them, the soil above it sinking in slightly where it looked as if the last of them was also slowly digging himself free.

It takes all of the three of them to haul Faraday from his grave, unlike the rest of them, looking no more like they just gone and rolled themselves in dirt, the gambler actually looks like death. His skin looks a pale grey as he coughs, spits and swears between gasps, but he doesn't look all that surprised to be risen again.

It's a curious thing, being resurrected. And if Goodnight had been previously asked, he might not have guessed the drunken Irish man as being one of the Undying.

Still, crassness aside, Goodnight has never been more glad for a second chance, even if he truly did not deserve it. Much in this life was not deserved, that things seemed to have turned out better than expected seemed like something he should appreciate.

 

Faraday recovers himself eventually, coughs subsiding, recovers enough to give all of them holding him upright an indignant sort of glare.

“Alright, alright, why's everyone touching me?” He gripes, shoulders shrugging their grip from him.

Billy gives him a flat look and his lone hand on Faraday's shoulder looks to be the only thing keeping the man from keeling over.

“What? You think you owe me a 'debt of honor'?” Faraday snipes in the mean tone he uses when his joking turns sharp.

Billy snorts something that could be a cousin of a laugh and bares his teeth in a way that's not even close to friendly.

Goody has a suddenly horrible suspicion that the two of them could might actually become friends, and he can't fully articulate what a terrible idea that could be.

 

The sun sits fairly high in the sky by the time they've dusted themselves off and started their way down the hill to that small town they all died to protect. A light breeze blows its way up the river, cooling the rising sun to a bearable warm. It's a good day to be alive.

Freshly reboarded and repainted walls make the town look new though there's still a few missed bullet holes decorating a building here and there.

Faraday had complained loudly about about 'ruining the mystery of the thing', when they'd first started heading down the hill towards the town, prodding him gently for some sort of explanation. But he'd been leaning pretty heavily on Horne and that, more than the unhealthy grey of his face, makes it easy for Goodnight to ignore his underbreath grumblings of 'when they come at us with torches and pitchforks don't say I didn't warn you'.

Now Goody didn't know much of the Undying beyond legend and hearsay.

He knew he could head shot one perfectly one day, and sight them down his sights hale and healthy on the battlefield the next day.

In all those legends and tales Goodnight had never heard of one coming back anything less than whole.

 

They've just reached the beginning of the main thoroughfare when a horse starts screaming. There's the sound of cracking wood and a shout of alarm from an unseen person and then a bay horse is galloping down main street, head high and haughty.

Faraday huffs a laugh as he recognizes the stallion heading towards them, disentangling himself from Horne to talk to his horse. Jack dances around, too full of energy to stand still, and Faraday lets the horse knock him side to side with enthusiasm even as he pales with each misstep.

Young Teddy himself is fast behind the horse, hands flapping as he approaches, too busy trying to wrangle Jack that he doesn't once look up to see who he's talking to.

“Sorry. He's a good horse, he's just-” Teddy looks up at them and freezes.

“Mine.” Faraday finishes for him, crossing his arms. “What in the hell are you doing with my horse?”

 

The good folk of Rose Creek are wary of them, dead men walking, maybe more so than when they'd rode into town as gunslinging strangers, but they try to hide it, which surely must count for something. But after they're cleaned up, drunken and eaten their fill, it's clear the four of them should move on.

Teddy's a little more enthusiastic, but as it turns out, even in the face of a miracle, Faraday can still raise his ire.

The boy's original innocence is muted, troubled by the events just passed and subdued by the still healing wound he carried.

A week's worth of healing. Goodnight watches Faraday closely to see his reaction to the time passed, but the gambler just squints some more and inquires after the survivors of the seven.

They don't stay long.

Ms Emma looks torn between glad they're alive and heart broken because her husband still isn't, but she gives them as much information on the Sam, Red and Vasquez as she had, little though it is. They left as suddenly as they'd come, and just as mysteriously.

 

They follow Miss Emma's scant information until the trail turns to rumor and hearsay. Soon even that dries up and Goodnight despairs that Billy may actually murder Faraday as the other man's frustrations bubble over and clash with everyone else's.

When he's not purposefully irritating the living heck out of everyone, Faraday's quiet for a man whose thrice done something even the Lord only did rarely.

He'd regained his pallor – as much as a suntouched Irishman had color anyway – and returned to his drinking and playing with the deck of cards his fast fingers had pocketed before they'd left Rose Creek.

(Goodnight suspects from Teddy, because no matter how much recent events had matured the lad, Faraday seemed to feel he was still ripe for a little ribbing)

That their resident Undying gambler had returned to all his habits ( bad and otherwise ) should have signaled a full recovery.

And yet his limp remained.

“Never heard of the Undying coming back hurt.” Goodnight says it quiet, leaning back in his saddle like he's commenting on the weather.

Faraday doesn't say a goddamned thing, just glances to the further away Billy and Jack, then fumbles in his vest for his flask with a squinting look to the sky like he's praying his liquor outlasts Goodnight's questions.

When Goodnight speaks next, after he's thought some on a way to word it so the man didn't get riled up, Goodnight makes his voice somehow even softer.

“You come back wrong because of us, son?”

For a long moment Faraday rides silently and lets Goodnight carry that guilt, lets him think it's them that caused his grinding bones and constant limp. Goodnight understands the sentiment, it's an unkind world for those that are different, and for the gambler to say anything else was to leave himself vulnerable.

Finally Faraday tilts his chin, the barest shake of his head.

“The dynamite,” He says, eyes not straying from the reins in his hands. “Burnt me up some.”

He goes quiet long enough for Goodnight's chest to lurch with something akin to horror, the Undying didn't come back from fire, and Faraday pastes on a wide mean grin that's all teeth.

“There's a reason you folk like to burn people like me. Ain't nothing else stops us so good.”

Goodnight means to say something but Faraday's grin sours to a sullen glare that he casts around at the rest of their companions.

Goodnight suspects the concern in his voice sits uncomfortable like on Faraday's skin, a new and not entirely pleasant feeling when he was more used to a man's ire.

Faraday must catch sight of Billy's blank stare where he's watching them converse.

“Goddamn it, Goodnight,” Faraday snarls under his breath then digs his heels in and pushes his horse away from Goodnight while muttering under his voice. “Lucky you've got Billy's knives always watching your back, always so quick to talk all personal like. “

And that, Goodnight thinks, answered just about as much as Goodnight expected.

 

The stalemate breaks one morning two weeks after they'd left Rose Creek, when Jack comes back from his morning commune with nature bearing a handful of wanted posters which they use to guess their next move. And it is merely a guess, educated though it might be, but they luck out as the third week passes, finding a town freshly visited by an unlikely trio which gives them to a new bearing and the name of the bounty that the three are hunting. A four figure bounty for a gang of thieves that would split nicely between three.

“Well,” Faraday announces putting foot to stirrup and mounting his horse with more energy than any of them had seen from the man this past from week. “Let's hope it splits as neatly seven ways.”

And he rides on without waiting for comment or courtesy.

Jack gives a little _Lord save me from rushing fools_ look to the sky and follows as Goodnight risks a look to Billy. His long time companion has something of a painful fond look on his face that Goodnight is going to tease him about mercilessly next time they're in private. But he says nothing of it, just pulls himself up on his horse and gives Billy a winning smile.

“Shall we, _mon cher?”_

That painful fond look turns on Goodnight, shifting a touch fonder before settling to a careful calm blankness, masking his tone so that his next words seem meaner than the spirit of a jest he truly intends.

“We'll probably find the idiot up ahead, dead or dying. Again.”


	2. Sam

**SAM**

 

They hadn't stayed the customary day after the four had been put in the ground. Sam hadn't been sure of that had been the right decision, but in the end a clean cut had seemed the kindest.

For Vasquez.

For himself.

No sense in prolonging the torture, of letting a false hope linger. They had compromised, of course, riding a steadier pace, one that could be caught up on by a rider (or four) with the inclination, and they'd stayed longer than was perhaps wise in the first proper town they'd come across.

Oh, they'd made the excuse of supply gathering, rest taking, and then the choosing of a bounty that they all agreed upon.

But their eyes had been on the horizon, every newcomer marked by the briefest moment of anticipation when a silhouette appeared in the distance before quickly dissipating to something somber and disappointed.

The day Vasquez had taken to swigging liquor before going down the hotel's stairs to see if anyone new had come in overnight, that day Sam had decided they needed to move on.

Sam would be lying if he said he didn't miss Goodnight, his instant charm. They'd traveled together some when they'd first met, Sam hadn't been entirely convinced the Grey wouldn't keel over the moment Sam took his eyes off of him - but Goodnight had proved handy beyond his white face and good name. The Cajun had the sort of nature that just made a person _want_ to lend a hand.

He'd been a good man. They'd all been good men. Whether looking to right past wrongs, regain what was lost, or merely to test themselves; their reasons, in the end, had mattered less than their actions.

But now it was past time to put all that mourning and regret to bed and get on with it.

In the end it hadn't taken much convincing to get Vasquez to come along with Red and him. While Sam had no doubt the man could have survived up in the hills he had found him in, alone and safe, Sam suspects the vaquero gladly sacrifices the safe solitude of the mountains for the company of men he could trust. Travelling with a duly sworn warrant officer surely helped, not many would see a wanted man's face in Sam's company.

So he'd chosen a warrant, small enough to not get them all killed while they worked out how they fit together as a three man unit, with a bounty that wasn't too small.

 

They find their quarry holed up in the hills near an old mining town, George Larson is a mean son of a gun by all accounts, who ruled his gang of thieves with an iron fist and a blacker heart.

Sam liked to take a man alive if he could, a man with a killer reputation made the sort of pre-impression that wasn't easily shifted. But as they track the man into the hills riddled with bordered up mines and dried up veins, Sam knows that while he might not plan on killing Larson, he's not going to hesitate if his hand is forced.

 

There's still moisture in the air from the morning's dew when they catch up to Larson. He's only got three of his men with him, but the rounding up of the rest of the gang is a job for a later time. Now is for a show of force, Sam and Vasquez at forefront until one of Larson's men tries to lift his rifle and ends up with one of Red's arrows in his arm. And just like that all of their prey stops edging for their weapons, convinced the hills are hiding more of Sam's friends.

Sam can hear riders coming up behind but Red hasn't called a single warning. That in itself raises Sam's curiosity, he can't think of a singe soul that Red might trust at their backs with out a word.

The leader, Larson, senses Sam's distraction and he goes for his pistol. Now Sam's fast, his gun has cleared holster and his bullet in the man's hand from one blink to the next, but he's not prepared for a volley of shots to ring out, from behind them. Larson jerks, his unwounded hand dropping a concealed pistol as he takes two, three shots to the chest. He hits the ground, tumbling down a dip and lying still, dead.

Sam turns his attention towards the shooter, Vasquez has already spun, gun at the ready, hand hovering over the hammer but frozen as he tries to reconcile what he's believed was true and what's in front of them.

Upon the horse they'd left behind in Rose Creek almost a month back sits an even more familiar man, pistol aiming at the remaining men, a grin on his face like he's daring them to make a move.

Then the seriousness of the moment shatters as his eyes flick across to Vasquez and,

“Teddy?! You give my horse to Teddy?”! Demands a voice. An impossible voice.

Vasquez makes a sound in his throat that sounds like the broken cousin of a laugh.

Faraday maybe looks a little shamefaced at the outburst, but he's too busy staring at Vasquez and doesn't look to be letting up soon. Sam reckons there'll be a tale or two to be told between the two sometime in the future if they ever manage to settle themselves properly.

Billy and Jack Horne have fanned out, watching the hills while further back Goodnight's familiar silhouette is framed by the sun; rifle up, hip cocked to the side like he always did when he was putting on a show of nonchalant readiness.

“He was the bad guy right?” Faraday jokes though there's a wariness in his eye, and in the way he's holding himself on his horse, hand gripping reins too tight, body tense like he's expecting to need to take off in a hurry. It's the sort of wary Sam hasn't ever seen in the man who'd heard 'impossible job' and grinned like it was Christmas, and he can't say it suits the gambler much.

That gives Sam the first clue who might be to blame for the miraculous resurrection. The other three look varying shades of shellshocked, like they hadn't quite believed themselves truly alive til right this moment. Faraday looks an even mix between preparing to be uncomfortable at the attention and readying to run at first sign of trouble.

Any further conversation is cut short by a creaking sound and they all turn to stare down at Larson's body as it shifts. There's the sound of cracking wood, the ground opening up with a cloud of splinters and the body falls down an old mine shaft, concealed by overgrowth and rotting wood.

“Well, that'll keep til morning.” Faraday says, staring down at the dead man down the bottom of the mine shaft, feeling the eyes of everyone on him. “Now, by my reckoning, you all owe me a drink.”

 

They'd been staying in town long enough that the townfolk didn't stare with outright hostility as they ride into town. Though coming back with a handful of new faces, two hogtied, did raise a few eyebrows, but no doubt the town's good folk would be more welcoming when the news spread that half of Larson's gang – and Larson himself – had been taken care of.

They make their way to the town's saloon and hotel, where Sam, Red and Vasquez had centered their operations.

Sam had thought, at first, that Faraday had stayed on his horse back in the hills in case he needed to make a quick get away, but when they get back into town, he's slow to dismount even with all the comments he'd made the entire ride in about the alcohol he was going to require. And he studiously ignores the others as he limped his way inside the saloon, acting like the stiff leg he was now carrying wasn't the one that had finally taken him down all those weeks ago, like it was nothing new even when all the others seemed perfectly healthy.

“How?” Sam asks when he's off his horse and face to face with a friend he'd buried and mourned.

“God might not be watching after us, but it seems our friends are doing it for Him.” Goodnight says, his smile nearly splitting his face as he shakes Sam's hand, his other hand gripping tight on his shoulder, genuinely happy it seemed.

“And the leg?” Sam looked to Goodnight with raised eyebrows but the man just shakes his head, a promise for further explanation later in his eyes.

Faraday, for his part, seems determined to continue pretending he didn't just raise himself from the dead, or bring three men back with him. He takes any questions towards his health as an invitation to fan out his card deck and implore the inquirer to believe in magic and pick a card.

(any further pressing gets met with a harsher snarl of something that's supposed to be cutting and personal and a wild changing of subject)

Sam lets it go himself, lets Vasquez annoy Faraday into a corner table, watches his men settle themselves in the same corner seats himself next to Goodnight.

“He say anything?” Sam asks Goodnight, keeping his voice low so the Grey is his only audience, as he nods minutely towards Faraday.

The man of the hour is sprawled over his chair and half of Vasquez' as well. He'd look pretty nonchalant if not for the way his face twitches with aborted grimaces every time he shifts, while idly running a knuckle along the muscle of his thigh.

The gambler might think he's going unnoticed, but from an outsider's view, Sam can see that while Vasquez is giving a token complaint every time Faraday's foot moves in his lap, he's also only shifting positions with a careful eye on the other man's face, searching for any further signs of discomfort.

“Not much, no, I dare say he seemed as surprised as the rest of us at the whole situation.”

“Is it going to bring trouble?”

“No more than he usually would, I wager.”

Sam smiles and lifts his glass, gestures at Vasquez whose managed to drag Red and Billy into the card game Faraday had him playing. “And those two?”

“Well now,” Goodnight shares his smile, “That is another thing entirely.”

Goodnight looks calmer, Sam thinks, though he's unsure if it was Rose Creek or the simple truth of a second chance at life that had had the effect. Oh, he was still watching every one of the saloon's entrances like he was expecting the hounds of hell to burst through, but now, at least, he looked almost ready to deal with whatever came.

He gives Sam another smile, something softer with less teeth, then he stands, walking over to where the men are playing. He pulls a chair up beside Billy and under the guise of teaming up against the others, hooks an arm over the back of Billy's chair and leans in close.

Sam's lost a lot in his lifetime; as bitter a feeling it might be that his family hadn't shared whatever spark of different the Undying carried, Sam was not the sort of man that'd spit in the face of a miracle just because it weren't as timely as he might've wished.

And not when Faraday had damaged himself permanently doing so. No man, especially not one that lived so obviously alone and on the edge, chose that lightly. Where the speed of a man's draw was only one weapon in his arsenal and fights could be stalled by posturing and intimidation, Faraday was a fiery tempered Irishman with a reputation for not missing a shot. A man with a bum leg was judged and dismissed long before he had a chance to show his true colors.

 


	3. faraday

**FARADAY**

 

Early the next morning, Faraday and Vasquez leave the remaining seven to fetch Larson's body from the bottom of the mine shaft. Faraday doesn't tell Vasquez that he'd asked Chisholm for the favor. He and Vasquez had had something, or maybe the start of something, back in the long hot days of Rose Creek. But it had all gone up in a truly spectacular explosion and Faraday has no idea where that leaves them now.

They needed some time alone. Not just when they're too far into their cups and stumbling back to the boarding house to strip off and drop straight off to sleep.

Or when the night came and bed was calling, and nothing was discussed no matter how long they might have stayed awake in the dark.

Last night Vasquez had all but escorted him up the stairs no matter if Faraday had been blaming his unsteadiness on drink or pain.

Now actually, truly alone Faraday finds that sureness faltering. He and Vasquez made a good team as friends - friends that argued more than was kind, friends that maybe got too close when the night got dark and cold - but friends nonetheless.

He could ruin that and no matter how much Faraday might boast other wise, he liked having people at his back, liked sleeping with the knowledge that if he woke to a pistol in his face or a knife between his ribs, he'd have deserved it.

Faraday's not sure he wants to be alone again.

Back at Rose Creek they'd fallen together, too familiar and not nearly close enough at the same time. They'd pushed the line of what they could deny in the daylight hours because they'd believed themselves dead men walking.

Now Faraday had a slew of regrets, product of a life well lived as far as he was concerned, but there was still things that could be changed. And maybe, if he could work out how to do it - do it so Vasquez never realized how much better he could do than Faraday – maybe they could have something.

 

They ride out to the hills of yesterday at a steady pace, not pushing their horses much past a fast walk, riding in a comfortable silence. Faraday chews on several thoughts, but can't think of a way to voice any of them, so he settles for watching Vasquez in a way that he hopes is stealthy.

The Mexican side eyes him back, a smile tugging at his lips. Faraday wonders if he's been okay; he'd been a wanted man - still was, for all they seemed to forget it – and that didn't sit easy on a man.

“No one's been bothering you? Sam keeping anyone from looking to closely at you?” Faraday tries to ask it like he doesn't care for the answer.

Vasquez gives a carefree sort of full body shrug that could mean safe as a babe to we've been fending off bounty hunters left, right and center.

Faraday narrows his eyes.

“We could always head east – up to the territories, no man's land there.”

“Older people than you and I own that land, _cabr_ _ó_ _n_.”

Faraday scowls, now the Mexican is just being stupid on purpose.

“No white man laws there, means no warrant _ah-me-go.”_

“You gonna turn prospector? Pan the streams?” Vasquez is definitely laughing at him now.

Faraday snorts derisively, shrugging. “Fish them maybe.”

“Can't see you settling into the quiet life, _g_ _ü_ _ero_.”

“Maybe I'll just play cards, let you do all the panhandling. Lotta gold in everyone's pockets to win. I'll even buy you some land with the winnings.”

“What would we do with some dirt, _g_ _ü_ _ero?"_ Vasquez shrugs. “This is good. We're doing good.”

“Good Lord, how on earth did you ever manage a five hundred dollar bounty?” Faraday demands, feeling personally offended. Vasquez makes Faraday feel like a damned villain. “This ranger you kill part time saint or something?”

He's getting too personal but he can't help it, not really, goddamn it but he's curious.

For a long moment it seems like Vasquez is going to keep quiet, but then he shrugs and says quietly, 'son of an important man' in a tone that says _what can you do_.

“Can we just shoot _him_ then?”

Seems like a good idea to him, big money was only powerful as long as it breathed. Bogue proved that. Weren't a lot of rich folk out there that hadn't screwed over most who crossed their path.

Vasquez' shoulders move with his laughter and says no more, though Faraday was truly not joking.

“Ask a man to run away with me and he turns me down, how will my delicate disposition survive the shame?” He mumbles, wishes he'd had the foresight to refill his flask and gives himself a moment to secretly enjoy Vasquez' mirth.

 

Once they reach the place where Faraday had shot a man yesterday, Faraday ties the horses to a sad looking tree while Vasquez tries to find a place to anchor a rope for them to climb down the hole.

“You sure you got enough rope?”

Vasquez yanks on the rope again, testing it against his weight.

“You sure you gonna be able to get back up, _g_ _ü_ _ero_?” Vasquez snipes back, keeps his tone teasing so it covers the concern lurking underneath.

“I look like an old woman to you, muchacho?” Faraday snipes back with a childish _anything you can do I can do better_ type of grin, even though that, at the moment, was not decidedly true. Still, no need to share that. He's pretty sure it'll be fine. He'll be fine. Faraday takes another look down the mine shaft, it's not so far.

Actually, _wait_ , Faraday takes another look downwards, but not to measure the distance this time.

“Ah V? This hole's looking mighty empty.”

“Eh?” Vasquez jostles in beside Faraday, squinting down into the darkness. “Shit.”

“Best we get down there, then.”

The bottom of the mine shaft is definitely empty. There's boot marks in the dust that probably hasn't been touched for years before Larson came crashing down here yesterday, but not a lot of sign of what happened to the body.

“You think someone dragged him off?” Faraday asks. “One of his men?”

But Vasquez is staring down one of the tunnels that shoot off into the dark.

“Did something just move?” Vasquez asks as something moves in the dark behind them and Faraday realizes the marks left behind in the dust look a lot more like the body had got hisself up and walked away.

He spins, drawing his pistol and firing before he even gets a good look at what's behind them.

But he's too slow, or the thing's too fast, dodging his shots, anticipating him and suddenly too close.

It's a man, this thing, and he swings something heavy in the dark at Faraday.

He gets his arm up as it hits, shock from the force numbs his wrist and runs up his arm, it deadens his arm even as the force makes him smack himself in the face with his own gun.

Faraday loses a moment stumbling, trying to keep his feet and failing. Their lamp topples over and splutters til their only light source is Vasquez' pistols firing a last time.

Faraday keeps a ready hand on Maria, keeping low as he pulls himself into a crouch and tries to ignore the fact that his good arm isn't working like it should, or the way his head's swimming.

Something knocks him down, his hand flying from gungrip before he can pull it.

Someone grabs him, and if his head didn't feel half full of sand maybe Faraday would do better a grappling him. But he does his best, trying to shove the man off, the least he manages is getting a good look at whoever's down here with them.

It's Larson. Back from the dead, Undying from the look of the dried blood from Faraday's shots yesterday still patterning his shirt.

Larson's head tilts, studying him. Faraday tries to say something but the man grabs a fistful of his hair and with a sharp downward motion pushes it back against a rock.

Faraday's grip on the man's vest slides as his hands fall to his sides.

Something wet and warm runs down his spine, wetting his collar and stickying his hair.

“I can feel it, you know.” Larson says pulling Faraday close, face to face. "One of you is like me."

Past Larson, in the gloom, he can see a crumpled body and there was only one person it could be. Vasquez isn't moving.

Faraday feels himself lifting again, his hands try to rise, to fight, but he can't even keep his head upright. There's no co-ordination left in him, just the heavy limbed feel of a bad head injury.

Larson grins.

“Let's see which it is.”

There's a free falling motion and a sickening crack, and the man speaks again.

“Sorry, son.”

He doesn't sound all that sorry Faraday thinks as he feels himself half lifted again, and brought back down with more force.

He doesn't hear the crack this time.

 


	4. sam&vasquez

**SAM**

 

Truth be told Sam might have preferred to send a different combination of men to recover Larson's body. Maybe Jack for his strength, or maybe just have left the task til later – Faraday's a sure shot and Vasquez' duel pistols turned a battle's tide handily.

Faraday and Vasquez ride out in the early morning to retrieve Larson's body, while the rest of them make preparations to clear what's left of the dead man's gang.

But Faraday had asked, or rather he'd jokingly suggested with the tense shoulders of a man that didn't want close scrutiny.

Now Sam wavers between thinking they're both idiots that deserve each other, and one or the other should run for the hills before they realized whatever feeling they've got is mutual.

But it looks they're going to be travelling together for the foreseeable future and Sam would like it if that time could be spent in something that passed for peace.

Giving the two of them some alone time away from crowd and distraction looked to be a step in the right way to achieve that; as long as one didn't kill the other first.

So, tactics aside, Sam puts the whole thing aside and focuses on the current task at hand, it shouldn't be too hard, by all accounts their Larson was the true powerhouse behind the gang.

The sheriff of the town is an old man. He's got the lean wasted body of a man too long in the harsh sun. He's too frail to be an effective sheriff but his mind is still keen and Sam knows it's his approval of them that's made their stay in town not completely rife with conflict.

The sheriff was not fond of a gang of thieves making camp near his town and he's happy to work with Sam and company to bring them to justice. It was his information that led them to Larson and today it's got the rest of his men cornered by Sam and his men.

They don't rightly seem the marauding gang sort. Timid without their leader, they let themselves be rounded up with very little fuss and soon they're all bound and heading back to town.

They've all got identical hangdog expression of men resigned to their fate and Sam finds himself looking for the man that's most in charge when Larson doesn't hold their leash. He narrows in on the one that seems most likely, a tall man with dust in his hair and the same defeated look all his brethren carry.

The lack of posturing grates against Sam's good sense, so he decides to ease that curiosity with a short conversation, they've the time for it during the ride back to town.

“Truth be told, I expected a bit more fight from your lot.” He says, a question in his voice.

“We didn't-.” The man cuts off whatever he was going to say with a sigh. “We're tired. It's hard living out here.”

“And you never thought to walk away? Thieving's not a long term plan that doesn't end anywhere else but the noose.”

“Larson, he has a way of getting in a man's head. Seemed like maybe we could get away with it.” The man shrugs and gives another sigh. “Long as he was there, anyhow.”

“He's not here now.” Sam says deceptively mild.

“He will be. He don't take kindly to people messing with his plans.” The man's starting to look cagey, scared of something not here right now.

“Could you not leave?” Goodnight comments as his horse walks up beside them.

“No one just leaves. Larson's not the forgiving sort.”

“Turn him in for bounty.” Billy comments in his steady voice, riding as always at Robicheaux's right. “Ride east, never look back.”

But the man just shivers, bound hands twisting idly above his saddle's pommel.

“Might one of you have shot the man in the back, he frighten you so much?” Sam asks, voice reasonable for all his words aren't.

The man's head shakes, along with a full body shudder.

“He's not right, you can't kill him. He just comes back.” The man's hands pull at the twine tying them but he's not trying to escape. “We can't get away, he just keeps coming back.”

Sam jerks at the words and Goodnight's horse jerks as the man's grip on his reins tighten in surprise, realization sinking in. Sam turns towards Red, but he's already moving, turning his horse on a dime and riding towards the abandoned mined at full gallop.

 

 

**VASQUEZ**

 

They have tales of the Undying down south where Vasquez was born. None of them are good.

Vasquez' little sister had once snapped at him that he'd need an Undying love to keep up with all of his stupid ideas. Their mother had washed her mouth out with foul smelling soap for the curse, but as Vasquez' life had turned more and more wild, as he'd bled out and watched his, his _something,_  beingbeaten he'd wondered if maybe his sister hadn't been right.

Faraday is an impossible man, running hot and cold, quick to temper and quicker to crack a smile. Vasquez had not seen himself ending up with someone like Faraday, but then his life seemed a long series of unplanned mistakes and disasters. But Vasquez hopes he has a second chance here, the sort of chance he'd not thought possible a couple of months ago, hiding up in the hills. A fugitive, wanted dead or alive. A chance he'd thought he'd missed when he'd ridden away from Faraday's name carved above a grave. He didn't intend to let the chance to not be lonely, to share his life with someone he loved, slip through his fingers again.

He does know he's been glad – so fucking glad – to see Faraday upright and whole again, what he'd found in that field on the outskirts of Rose Creek, amongst twisted metal and gore, still haunted him like a punch to the gut.

 

Vasquez wakes. He remembers the dark, someone's gun going off, the briefest flash of the sharpest pain and then the darkness had swamped him.

The fact that he wakes at all has him gasping and flailing at the thing holding him down. There's cold metal wrapping around his wrists but something near his ear whispers _it's okay, it's okay, I'm sorry, it's okay_ over and over til the words don't sound like words no more, but soothing nonetheless.

Hell shouldn't be soothing, that thought makes him still in the end. Still and actually hear the words in his ear, hear whose saying them.

“Joshua?” If Vasquez was more awake, more alert he'd not use that name, still, he says it soft, gentle and unsure.

He's not sure any of them had known Faraday's full name til Sam had given it to be carved about his grave.

Just as Vasquez had faded to a one name entity over time, he suspected Faraday was as far removed from the child his mother had called Joshua as Vasquez himself from his own mama's Alejandro.

He's not sure he's allowed to use a name not freely given so he says it soft and selfishly hopes the situation stalls any fight Faraday might be inclined to start over it.

“You with me now, Vas?” Faraday asks instead, looking too tired to be sitting up let alone starting any fights.

Vasquez opens his eyes and finds himself half cradled awkwardly in Faraday's shackled hands, the other man looking terrible in the gloom of whatever underground cavern they've been stuck in. The hands holding him half upright shake and Faraday's blinking at Vasquez with uneven pupils.

“You okay _g_ _ü_ _ero_ _?_ ” Vasquez asks without thinking and is rewarded with a choked laugh.

“Safe to say we're both pretty fucked, muchacho.”

As the words leave Faraday's mouth the wooden door swings open and before Vasquez can get to his feet a hand grabs the back of Vasquez's vest and tosses him away from Faraday. Larson kicks Faraday flat to the ground and closes in on Vasquez.

He can see Faraday trying to get his feet under him as Larson's fist finds Vasquez' gut and face in quick succession. He tastes blood as he's thrown back against the wall. He takes another punch to the face and by the time his eyes refocus Larson yanking the chains at his wrists towards an eyelet embedded in the wall. He doubles his efforts but the man's got a padlock hooked around Vasquez' chains and snaps it shut on the metal ring jutting out of the wall. Once it's locked Larson jumps back, not managing to avoid the leg Vasquez kicks out but laughing off the hit anyway.

Then he's back to Faraday, only just now wobbling to his hands and knees. A swift kick to the gut puts him back in the dirt and Vasquez shouts a slew of profanities at him as Larson uses the toe of his boot to roll Faraday, groaning, onto his back.

“Not all that good at this are you, son?”

Faraday glares at him, but Larson just huffs a laugh and says, “No shame in it, you're young, not using your gift like you should,” as he grabs Faraday by the shirtfront and pulls him ungently upright. Faraday struggles to focus his eyes and Vasquez pulls hopelessly at his chains, feeling the metal bite and pulling harder.

“ ** _No le toques chingado_!”**

Larson just ignores him.

“Still just a baby though, huh?” Larson's voice is a mockery of fondness as he slaps Faraday's face. “Haven't died enough to snap right back, though you do come back pretty quick, I'll give you that.”

“Wasn't sure which one you was like me to be honest, never seen two Undying travellin' together. Real smart though, now I think about it.”

Vasquez looks to Faraday to find the man already looking back, a painful look on his face. With careful slowness Faraday's head shakes the minutest of no's. Not that Vasquez had planned on telling this _pendejo_  anything, he gets the feeling that the moment Larson loses interest, they were both dead, permanently this time.

But then he frowns, and starts staring at Faraday in a way that makes Vasquez feel wholly uncomfortable, like he was an interesting puzzle, one that needed taking apart to satisfy all his questions.

“You know your friend here, he may as well be like the rest of the sheep, way he feels. But you, _you_ feel different. You've done something, I can feel it. I can feel this.” His hand touching where the muscle in Faraday's thigh dips unnaturally, where it hadn't healed proper after the bullet, after the dynamite. “Someone burn you boy?”

Faraday chokes back a scream as Larson's leaning turns to a fist and he presses hard against where the patch job he'd done on himself was the softest. It sounds like he's grinding glass into Faraday's bones.

Larson's an old man, Vasquez can see that in the something vicious and ancient burning behind his eyes.

Old and insane. Vasquez doesn't want to think about the lives he's lived.

He's not going to let them go. Easily or otherwise, and Vasquez can't help but think they might not survive this.

“I seen some try to come back from a burning. But what comes back usually ain't a man. Ain't whole, body or head. How'd you do it?” He asks pressing down hard again as Faraday looked away, eyes scrunching closed. He didn't owe this man a thing.

“You think we're alone?” Vasquez asks, desperately trying to get Larson's attention as blood runs down his arms where he's pulling at the chains.

“You think I don't got more men?” Larson asks with an ugly smile. “I imagine by now they've found the rest of your friends.”

But his attention on Vasquez doesn't last, and soon he's turned back on Faraday.

“Now, you gonna tell me how did you do this?”

“I don't know!” The words burst out of Faraday's mouth, a gasping cry of pain.

Larson grins, an evil leer, but then his head cocks to the side, listening to something.

“Sounds like we got us a guest, I'll be right back.” He says with a gentle pat to Faraday's face, like he hadn't just been torturing the man, Larson drops him to the ground and leaves them alone. For the moment.

“Well. This ain't ideal.” Faraday says, breathing raggedly for several long moments before laughing, though the sound lacks mirth. “Might've fucked up some, coming alone.”

 


	5. red & faraday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> friendly reminder for everyone to heed the everybody dies/everybody lives tag & not kill me.

**RED**

 

Red's people have their own legends of Those That Return, Red's even known more than one.

( a wide eyed child that had startled a rattlesnake, stiff by the afternoon and yet had been playing with the other children come the next morning. An old warrior, horse painted with more honors than clean skin, a wild young man turned steadfast elder. Slow to heat, he'd always had time and wisdom to spend with a young man whose path was unclear. And the last, an enemy warrior that had dogged Red's band for weeks before they'd managed to wrestle the man down and burn him from this world. )

White man had strange notions of what was right and wrong, as though things that simply was could be judged by man.

Red has travelled further than most of his people, his path taking him from the plains so familiar to this stony foreign ground.

He's met many a man, of every sort, from the best to the worst, though most sat in the middle ground, neither good or bad.

Sam was a level head and a fast hand, and he led them with the same wisdom, not ordering what he wouldn't do himself, and listening when another's experience might surpass his own.

And Vasquez was the sort of man any could fall into easy companionship. Even grieving as he had been these past weeks, the Mexican hadn't turned on any of their kindness as the hurt so often did.

The Cajun and his Korean partner had a good relationship. They fit together no matter who in this world might tell them they shouldn't. Red didn't much understand why most seemed to think their opinion were required, not when it was obvious that people like Goodnight and Billy were good for each other.

Even Horne, whatever tragedy in his past had led him to return his own hurt a hundred fold, the passing time seemed to have burnt out his hate and left only an old grief behind. Tempered and wizened by the harsh life he'd lived.

Red had even liked Faraday, as much as a man often too drunk to be civil could be liked. He was honest in a way many men were not. You could tell a lot about a man from the way he treated his horse, and Wild Jack loved his rider as much as any horse Red had seen.

In this world where Red found himself prejudiced and turned against for the hue of his skin, he trusted these men, if they found cause, to not shoot him in the back.

Red had found himself liking this band of men that Chisholm had brought together, each a warrior in his own right, each with the sense to follow the one that led best.

So he pushes his horse harder as he sends a hope to the sky,  _don't let me be too late._ He'd already had to experience Vasquez without Faraday, he has no wish to see the reverse.

He still doesn't know if travelling with these men was truly his path, but it feels right. And just.

Red was willing to follow it to it's end.

 

When he reaches the span of land where they'd met up and killed a man yesterday, Red can tell something has gone wrong. It's no one thing, Vasquez's white is lazily picking at the grass within her tied reach, the second lead is snapped off, but across where the ground had opened up yesterday, Faraday's bay stands, pawing agitated at the ground. Apart from the soft jangle of leather and stirrup as the horses shift from foot to foot there's no noise.

Soft footed Red walks to where the ground had opened up to old mine, pistol in hand and ready. He's at a disadvantage if someone is lying in wait at the bottom of the newly opened shaft, but Red didn't ride out here so fast just to wait for everyone else to catch up.

Red doesn't see anything on his first look, the shaft's too dark, his eyes unadjusted but no one shoots at him. In fact Red can't hear any movement at all. He risks a better look, long enough that he can make out the bottom of the shaft.

Where Larson's body had fallen yesterday now only stirred up dust remained. Deciding he's been cautious enough, Red holsters his pistol and descends the rope that Faraday and Vasquez had left dangling down the hole. It's a short shaft, in the scheme of the holes man dug in the ground for shiny rocks, the sort more likely to break a leg than a back.

Down at the bottom, what had looked merely like stirred up dust reads more as a fight, some sort of struggle. There's some blood shining dully in what little light the sun manages to shed, the smell of gunsmoke lingers, though Red can't say for sure how long ago guns were fired, the blood is dry when he presses fingertips against it and that speaks for at least an hour or more passed.

No one's been down this mine shaft for a long time, which makes it easy to see where someone had dragged two bodies further into the dark.

There's no room for his bow down here so Red pulls his pistol and gives himself a moment to center himself. He waits til his eyes fully adjust to the dark, til he can hear the barest hint of running water somewhere underground.

He hadn't expected it, but Red had found himself hoping to find the two missing cowboys bickering and fine. (maybe even sorting out whatever the two of the had spent a week dancing around at Rose Creek.)

Now all Red can do is hope when he finds them they're still in one piece.

 

The elements are not on Red's side, not down in the dark, it's not his territory and he hasn't the luxury of being able to wait any trouble out. Not while hoping to find his missing friends.

He hears movement the same moment a shot comes out of the dark, Red moves fast but not fast enough to avoid being hit. The bullet leaves a deep furrow in his shoulder but he ignores it, just keeps moving.

He aims at where the flash of gunfire had come from, is rewarded by the sound of a bullet hitting flesh.

It's not skill that knocks Red to the ground. The dead man from yesterday is suddenly too close, a blade tearing a trail of fire along Red's side even as he attacks back.

Red's knife hits resistance but his vision is swimming in and out. Not a good sign.

There's blood on Larson's teeth as he grins and looms over Red, and he thinks maybe he has at least hit a lung with his stabs.

Red uses the last of his dying strength to swing the knife again, it's the least he can do, Larson jerks back and Red feels himself let go, sliding into a forever blackness.

 

 

**FARADAY**

 

Faraday's almost seeing straight he thinks, feeling more wool headed than he ever has coming back. When he'd raise the three in Rose Creek he'd just felt tired, but this feels like a head injury all over again.

Faraday can hear the sound of chains rattling. He opens his eyes, stares at the ground some. On a good day he hates the nothingness between his eyes closing and when he comes back to living wakefulness, but it's never been this exhausting, even without the fun addition of torture.

Vasquez is still chained to the wall across the way, though from the red leaking from his wrists he's been trying to get Faraday's attention for some time.

“You back with me,  _g_ _ü_ _ero_?”

“Mmf.” He mumbles back. He's not tied down to anything, not like Vasquez is, but he's not going to be running around any time soon.

“You ever feel things? Like he does?” Vasquez asks, as Faraday gets almost upright and starts making his way over to the Mexican.

“Vas,” Faraday says looking downwards. “I don't feel a damned thing. Maybe he's right, maybe I don't use this thing right.”

Vasquez snorts angrily, “You think what he's doing, how he's  _using_  it is right?”

“No! Just.” Faraday pauses, shoulders hunching. “You don't think if I could've told that this jackass was like me, this whole situation would have never happened?”

“ _This,_ ” Vasquez's finger points for emphasis. “This isn't your fault.”

He's close enough to Vasquez that it seems easier to just drop down and rest his head on Vasquez' lap.

“Kinda feels like it could be.” He mumbles as one of Vasquez' hands drop gently on his head.

 

They sit in the dark for a long while, Faraday finds himself wishing for something to happen just so he's not so caught up thinking.

“I didn't mean to bring them back.” He says, staring resolutely not at Vasquez, whispering though the words are clear.

Faraday hates the idea of confessional; when a man did wrong no amount of talking about it made it any less wrong. But he needs Vasquez to know, if Faraday doesn't come back this time, he had to know, Faraday wasn't a good man.

There wasn't anything noble in his bones. He'd gone on a suicide run just to see if he  _could_ , he'd brought Goody, Billy and Horne back by accident. He didn't have any regrets, but to call it anything else was a disservice to those that actually thought before they leapt.

He wasn't someone worth grieving over.

Later, if pressed, he'd say he'd run his mouth to pass the time, to take their minds off the situation. ( to take that grim look off Vasquez's face )

“Must have been strange, waking up with other people for the first time, eh?” Vasquez' fingers dragging idly in his hair don't hurt with distracting him either.

“Strange? Yeah. First time? No.”

Vasquez's eyebrows climb, questioning.

“Brought a horse back once.” He says leaning back as nonchalantly as he can hurting and tired as he is.

“You get buried with your horse,  _g_ _ü_ _ero?”_

“Now.” Faraday pauses for effect. “That is a story.”

Faraday tries not to grimace too much as he attempts to shift his sitting to something that'll lessen the fire stoking itself in his hip. He doesn't quite succeed if the way Vasquez sidles up closer and tries to give him something to lean on.

Faraday pretends not to be grateful as he half slumps against Vasquez again; the new angle eases something a mite, but he bites back any noises of thanks and starts his story instead.

“Pot at one hundred dollars, and I know the man across from me's cards are shit; got a twitching eye tell like a not very bright child. Now he made a lotta noise, but I know, I fucking  _know_.”

“You cheat 'im,  _g_ _ü_ _er_ _ito?”_ Vasquez pokes a gentle finger into his side, a literal ribbing.

Faraday presses a hand against his chest in mock offense, “As if I'd have to cheat against a hand full of twos.”

“He think you cheat him?”

“Not after I convinced him otherwise, though it was, perhaps, a little foolish of me to think that was that.”

He loses himself for a moment in the memory. He goes quiet for long enough that Vas nudges him gently.

“Turns out,” He starts up again, voice a little too loudly. “what I thought was peace, was really him gathering up the rest of his dimwitted family so they could bushwhack me leaving town.”

Vasquez makes a noise, something that sounds like the start of one his Mexican curses, and Faraday regrets even starting this stupid story.

It's funny in his mind, accidentally bringing a horse back to life, but told in whole to someone, who - no slight against his better nature - considers Faraday a friend, it's a sad story in a long line of fuck-ups.

“Fuck, why am I even telling you this?”

“Can't stop now,  _g_ _ü_ _ero.”_

Faraday groans, putting a little theatrics into it so, when he realizes the story's no fun, Vasquez will know he has no one to blame but himself. He tells Vas as much but all he says is, “Stop stalling _.”_

“Okay,” Frustrated, Faraday bumps his head back down to where he's slid down to rest against his ribs. Vasquez grunts a little on the impact, but holds his silence. “Fine. Jesus. So. Asshole and his idiot brothers ambush me half days ride out of town. Out in this real barren land, the sort that don't see man or creature for weeks sometimes. Shoot my horse out from under me.”

He has no idea how long Vas has been running fingers through his hair, or how Faraday's ended up practically sprawled on top of him. The extra contact hadn't registered and he's not even sure that Vasquez even realizes he's doing it. He ponders making a fuss, but there's calming in the motions and Faraday's never claimed to be anything but selfish. He sighs and decides to just spit out the rest of story in a hurry.

“I lose some time in the fall, wake up half crushed under a dying horse. Swear to god, he broke half my ribs with all the carrying on. Then I hear a click. Colt cocked not more than a foot from my face, me staring down the barrel and knowing there's no way out.”

Vasquez's fingers slow.

“Then this foul breathed, dropped on his head too many times as a babe, mother fucking son of a bitch laughs, drops his pistol and leaves me there.”

Vasquez's fingers still completely, which is exactly what he'd hoped to avoid.

“I got better. Obviously.”

He doesn't say it took days for him to die. Doesn't say how delirious he'd been by that time, talking to his dead horse, he'd named the damned thing.

“Woke up to the damned horse pushing me about.” Faraday tries to say it light, 'cause it had been funny, confused and half convinced it had all been a drunken hallucination, 'cepting that his clothes were half coated in the horse's blood.

“What did you do after?” Vasquez asks quietly.

Faraday would like to say he lived and let live, took it all on the chin and moved on. But he wasn't a turn the other cheek kind of man, he's petty and angry and ready to step off with the slightest of provocation.

So he hadn't done anything wise.

Faraday grins, tilts his head up to look at Vasquez and says, “I rode my dead horse back into town, started something of a conversation with my murderers and had a fucking altercation.”

Vasquez stays quiet long enough that Faraday feels the need to add, “And not a soul in town made a move when I rode out.”

“You kill this man, his family, and no one stops you?”

“Oh,” Faraday feels a grin tugging at his face, it's not a nice grin but it's not the nicest of memories. “We looked like the holy hell, covered head to toe in dried blood, me half mad, horse fully so. Helped that Jack killed half of them. “

“Jack?”

“He's a good horse.” Faraday answers, deliberately misinterpreting the question.

 

He doesn't tell Vasquez about the first time, or any of the other times he'd died. Maybe, Faraday thinks, he's wistfully saving them for a time when they can both laugh about it, or when Vasquez can say he'll get him any revenge he needs while Faraday laughs.

He hadn't died that often, not in the grand scheme of things.

“You got scars.” Vasquez says after a time, his hand once again carding through Faraday's hair.

“What?”

“You,” Vasquez smile turns a shade wicked, teeth gleaming. “I've seen you, you've got scars.”

Faraday takes a moment to appreciate those memories, returns his own wicked grin.

“What, you think I off myself every time I get a splinter? Naw.”

The door swinging open cuts off any further conversation. Larson stalking in with a foul grin, announcing “Well ain't this cute.” as his eyes find them.

He's covered in blood, some of it must be his and fresh, it's still wet. But what captures Faraday's attention is what he's dragging behind him.

A body.

“You son of a goddamned bitch!” Faraday yells as dawning recognition sinks in.

He's going to kill him, Faraday thinks, kill him and watch him burn til there's nothing left for Larson to drag his sorry self back into.

Turns out anger - true anger – gives him the sort of energy that finally gets him on his feet and in Larson's face. Not that it does much good.

The other man knocks him to the ground pretty quick, stomps a foot into ribs to keep him down.

With an apologetic glance towards Vasquez, Faraday sets about doing what he does best – aggravating a man to the point of murder. Larson laughs as he grabs Faraday's collar, hauls him properly upright.

“Not that smart are you, son?” He asks but Faraday's world whites out.

He looks down and Larson's got a knife in his hand, blood dripping from the blade. Faraday's blood.

“Well, maybe you need a lesson or two.” He says, punching the blade back and forth before letting Faraday collapse to the ground.

Larson is still laughing as he leaves the room, it drowns out Vasquez' curses and shouts and Faraday clutches at the knife still buried in his stomach. He could have gone an entire lifetime not knowing how a gut wound felt and here he is, twice in as many months. Maybe he isn't so smart, but least he can do is try and bring Red back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we're getting close to the end


	6. faraday

**F** **ARADAY**

 

He figures one day it won't work. And then he'll be dead. But until then there's not a challenge on earth he's capable of not accepting.

Consciousness before wakefulness, he teeters on the line between alive and not, undying magic shifting under his skin as his body comes together like a well worn record.

Beside him, quite near, close enough to be confused with himself, he can sense another lying.

It's different than Jack, which he hadn't even felt. Different than the three in Rose Creek, who he'd felt but only raised unwittingly.

It's hard this time. Faraday can feel Red or something coiled, still but waiting, that feels like Red Harvest should, but what accounts for his grip in the afterlife is fumbling and weak. He feels as though he can barely hold himself, worse than before when it was just him, worse than when he brought Goody, Billy & Horne back with him. He's slipping, in more ways than one, not just his grip on Red, but maybe even his grip on himself.

But he forces himself to hold what's left of Red when he's no longer in his body.

His grip slips but Faraday grits his metaphorical teeth and tightens his hold. It still slips. He doesn't have the strength for it, he thinks and feels Red slip further and he can't. _He can't_.

And then. Just when he knows he can't keep a hold, Red grips back.

Faraday wants to weep with relief at the sturdy hold that's now encircling him but he shoves the thought aside, lets Red do the heavy lifting as he goes to work on his body. He doesn't have the energy for anything flash, like triage at battle's edge, he ignores scrapes and gashes, goes for the killing wound. It feels wrong to not heal everything, to pick and choose, but he hasn't the energy for more and Red will just have to heal the rest himself in life.

Then finally, he's finished.

He's too tired to do much more, instead just throws himself back to his body even as flesh still knitted itself together. Not that that haste does him any good, weak as a day old kitten with no doubt less sense, he opens his eyes and hopes he's done what he had to do.

He feels his body shudder as it tries to weakly expel dead air.

The ground beneath is hard, rocks digging in as he tries to choke out stale air. Every cough feels like its being ripped from him and he feels something beside him as he struggles regain his breath.

He uses his first full breath to take a swing at the something. He gets a grunt for his efforts as his elbow connects weakly with something fleshy.

Beside him Red takes a deep breath and sits up. His shoulder still bleeds freely but he pays it no mind as he looks around the cavern they're imprisoned in.

Faraday blinks and Red has gotten himself up and is looming over Faraday. A warm hand presses against his neck like he's checking to see if Faraday's alive, even though he's pretty sure his eyes are definitely open.

Red's expression is as unreadable as ever. The damned kid is worse than Billy, and Faraday had trouble getting a good read on the Korean on a good day. Red does look well, though, not coughing, not moving too stiffly.

Faraday's eyes focus, across the room Vasquez still sits, chained, and he can see some time has passed, an unkind amount if the dead look in Vasquez's eyes are any measure.

“By all that is holy, how are you better at this than me?” The words scrape out of a dry throat, though Faraday still manages to make them sound like a whine. His effort is rewarded by a glint in Red's eye, the corners crinkling slightly, that Faraday decides to read as fondness – or at the very least, amusement.

He closes his eyes as Red's hand moves away, he doesn't know the Comanche perspective on the Undying. Doesn't know anything much about the tribe except that a Comanche trained horse was worth its weight in gold. But every type of people seemed to have their opinions on folk that didn't stay dead, and so far the ones Faraday had discovered weren't what a man could call kind.

Sacrificing himself to take out the gatling gun might've endeared himself to the seven, but Faraday can't help but think how different his reception might have been had he shown up all on his lonesome.

When his eyes open again Red's standing over by Vasquez, fiddling with the padlock that's got him stuck to the wall. It doesn't seem rightly like the two have had the time to pick the lock, but in the space between another blink of eye Vasquez has managed to cross the room and is pulling Faraday up so he's roughly sitting. He sways, teetering one way before Vasquez anchors him with a strong grip on his shoulders.

“You with me _g_ _ü_ _ero?”_

Faraday nods once, but the movement makes him consider passing out so he fixes a grin on his face and stares at his hand til his fingers move to shape believable A-OK sign. Vasquez' face looks angry, or maybe annoyed, but the hands cradling Faraday's face are gentle.

He knows for sure he's losing time because when he looks up Vasquez and Red have managed to drag him across to a wall, to lean against. He tries the grin again as Vasquez props him upright, trying to settle him so he doesn't fall right back over the moment Vasquez' hands are removed. Vasquez just scowls and he _must_ like him. No one got that annoyed with people they didn't care for.

Red says something that Faraday misses, but Vasquez shakes his head in answer.

 

Faraday can feel something in the back of his mind, something that felt sort of like a swarm of bees closing in, and Faraday spares a moment to think that maybe he fucked up somewhere. Coming back this time he didn't put much effort into himself – didn't have it in him to do much of anything – he's mostly healed, even if his gut feels like the morning after a good ass kicking. But at least it's a bruised flesh feeling, not carved up like a knife wound felt. The rest of him feels fine – well, fine enough – so maybe the oncoming uneasy feeling isn't actually him.

It seems about right that the first time he actually _feels_ something, he's nigh on too addled to make much use of it.

“Vas,” He says, mumbling around a tongue too heavy in his mouth. “Think he's coming back.”

Vasquez squints at him, but thankfully doesn't question him any. Faraday doesn't have any answers. He isn't even sure he's right about Larson coming back. For all Faraday knows, he's just failed to heal his head properly, and what he's feeling now is just a broken skull.

Still, Red's back on the ground, looking comfortably dead, while Vasquez gives Faraday's shoulder a final squeeze and goes back to pretending to be chained to the wall.

They're going to make Larson regret thinking he could get away with all this, but Faraday doubts he's going to play much of a part in it as he struggles to keep his eyes from sliding closed again.

Faraday's uneasy feeling grows like an oncoming storm cloud, breaking as the door swings open and Larson's returned.

“Damn son, but you're a fast returner.” He says when he sees Faraday awake, heading straight for him.

Red surges up as Larson walks by, paying him no mind. Surprise is on his side this time, no one checks a dead body for signs of life, though the way the days going, Faraday's probably never going to leave a body unburned from here on out.

Red's hands are quick, he's got Larson's buck knife unsheathed and cutting before the man's pistol clears leather, and then Vasquez is there, wrestling for the gun.

Larson tears himself free of Red, reaching for Faraday; he's a dead man with his wounds, though that don't mean much to an Undying it'll still slow him down for a time.

“How?” He chokes out, hands on Faraday's shoulders, with a surprisingly strong death grip. Faraday tries to shake him off, lets Vasquez and Red shove him away properly.

“How?” He asks again, but the look in his eyes says he knows the question is going to the grave unanswered.

And they're going to burn him up before he gets the chance to come back.

Vasquez puts a bullet in the man's temple and that ends the fight pretty permanently.

“Anyone got any matches?” Faraday's head swims and he feels the sensation of rising blackness. His bad leg's knee wobbles and he feels himself leaning into the motion, a slow tilt that should feel precarious if not for the rolling blackness in his head.

He sees Vasquez's mouth move, maybe a growing grin, maybe he's saying something, Faraday tries to concentrate on it, but it seems easier to close his eyes. Which is something of a mistake as it just makes the rolling blackness sink its claws in deeper and he thinks maybe something catches him before he hits the floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just a short epilogue to come  
> fun random research stories- bees were introduced into america in the 1600s and were called white man's fly by some native americans,  
> & i could not find a timeline for the AOK sign (some sites say in the early 1900s some say its been around forever, but tbh i just liked the idea that it means something akin to asshole in south america so i enjoyed the mental image of vasquez going you good? and getting an 'asshole' in return


	7. faraday&sam

**FARADAY**

 

He's not awake to see Larson burn, nor how they manage to wrestle him up the mine shaft. Though he maybe dreams Billy telling him, in a haze of not quite awake as Horne's hands touch his forehead and Faraday's not sure he even opens his eyes, Billy's dead pan voice tells him that it was most amusing, like hauling a stuck calf from the mud. Jack's low voice mutters ' _more like a sack of flour'._ But it's late, and Faraday's not really awake, so he writes off the whole conversation as a fever dream and decides to pretend it never happened.

 

But at least he doesn't die – not this time – not sure if he'd have survived it if he had.

When he does wake, it's not to a lung full of dead air, or the sharp pain of old blood sluggishly pumping in veins.

It's softer. Like waking in the haze of one of Billy's specially rolled cigarettes, his head is muddled and his eyes open sticky with sleep. It's dark – still? No telling how long he's been unconscious – but a low lamp light sheds a soft glow on what looks like the boarding room he and Vasquez had shared what seems like a lifetime ago now. There's a distant ache in his hip but it's less than it could be, which he puts down to the soft bed he's lying in.

The sound of sloshing liquid catches Faraday's attention, and his eyes slide across to his bedside. Vasquez has installed himself in a chair, booted feet stretch across the divide of bed and chair, and Faraday can feel the slightest pressure where one presses up against his knee.

He gets distracted by the glinting silver of spur for a long while before following it up, all the way up long legs and lean body. He's a good looking man, is Vasquez, all dark looks and easy smiles. But his face isn't the prettiest feature, not right now, what's usually brightened by a grin and mirth, is dulled with a sober expression. He's staring down at his hands where he's turning a familiar flask over and over, as though an answer could be found in the tarnished silver, and Faraday finds himself noticing thick bandages that ring the Mexican's wrists.

Now Faraday has a thousand questions, a thousand thoughts and even a handful of feelings. But he's not a brave man, would rather face a room full of raised pistols that share the mess of emotion he's not sure even he fully understands that resides in his chest.

So instead of any of the things he's thinking, he just says, “That's mine.”

His voice comes out a croak, but just from sleep for once and nothing more sinister.

It still makes Vasquez jerk in his seat, fumbling at the flask before recovering his hold on it. Then he's staring at Faraday and not saying anything. Faraday tries very hard not to visibly squirm under that silent gaze. He doesn't know what to say, an apology, maybe? Though he's not truly sorry for much, excepting maybe getting Vasquez and Red mixed up with a crazed Undying.

Instead he cracks under Vasquez' gaze, he can't run, feels too tired to sit up right now, so Faraday hides the only available way, distraction,

“Is Red okay?”

Vasquez' eyebrows rise, then lower in a frown.

“ _Gü_ _ero.”_ He says, his voice serious – and Faraday suddenly doubts his own memory.

He thinks he remembers Red being okay, but his memories are hazy, and slippery like a passing dream and there's no way of telling what's real and what's not. And maybe that's why Vasquez looks so solemn, maybe Faraday had failed. Something of his inner worry must show on his face because Vasquez is suddenly standing, and leaning over Faraday so his face is close and open.

And.

_Oh._

It's not anger. It's been a long time since Faraday's seen someone looking at him like that.

“Is Red okay?” He asks again, just to see Vasquez' lips twitch with annoyed affection.

“ _Si_ , Red's fine. Up and giving everyone grey hairs.” Vasquez' smile turns sincere as he turns the question back to Faraday. “Are you okay?”

He takes a deep breath but Vasquez interrupts him because he can be blithe.

“You say 'so far so good' _e_ _ntonces ayúdame dios...”_

Faraday flashes a grin that's entirely too amused for the situation.

“Well, it ain't killing me yet.”

(it's the yet that makes Vasquez wince.)

Faraday grins, and he could leave it at that. Could let Vasquez' fondness sink back into their easy camaraderie, back to blurred lines and deniability, because if he's wrong he'll lose even that.

Faraday's not a brave man, but he _is_ a gambler. So he gathers up his nerve, ducks his head so that he's eye to eye with a vaquero that lets him get away with too much.

“Are _we_ okay?”

Faraday gets the briefest glimmer of Vasquez' eyes turning warm like melted butter before he drops his forehead against Faraday's, not quite gentle enough not to sting.

Faraday barely has a chance to consider complaining before Vasquez is kissing him, soothing away an ire, pushing away all thought until his world is just Vasquez' lips on his, his hands gentle and bracing on his jaw.

He has all manner of sappy sentiment bouncing around his skull, tries to tell it in touch what he doubts he'll ever be able to give voice.

Then Vasquez is pulling back, Faraday makes a noise of protest, one that would be more embarrassing if Vasquez' hands weren't wrenching to desperately at Faraday's shirt.

“Don't do that to me again, _g_ _ü_ _e_ _rito_.”

Faraday knows he can't promise that, and it must show on his face because Vasquez drops a sighing kiss on his forehead.

“At least,” Another kiss. “always come back, _a mi_.”

Faraday probably can't promise that either, probably shouldn't even think about it, but he thinks, lifting his hands up to Vasquez' face and pulling him close, he's gonna try.

 

 

**SAM**

 

They leave town as soon as Faraday's able to get on his horse and stay on it. With the bandits no longer preying upon the town, it wouldn't be long before the townsfolk started looking for someone new to blame all their minor woes on.

So they move on to find their fortunes elsewhere. Sam guesses they won't always travel so closely, sooner or later there's to be some drifting – though he has an inkling that any future parting of ways might only be temporary in nature. Men who lived and died together tended to be like that.

He suspects they'll all stay together for the time it takes them to be sure that all their group – Faraday – is good and stable. Though he also presumes there'll be an argument or five before that times comes, just as he's sure there will be as much trouble caused trying to keep each other – Faraday – out of trouble, than actual trouble averted.

(Just as he suspects Vasquez wouldn't be letting Faraday out of his sights any time soon, let alone into situations that might be described by certain members of the group as exciting – which in itself will probably bring about some interesting conversations ahead)

But for now, they ride as one, and Sam, with the best six men he knows at his back, thinks about making a difference.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> & thus it ends.   
> i want to thank everyone for their kind comments&kudos, it's meant the world to me.  
> &i may (or may not) be considering something akin to an outtakes&short stories from the universe, and if anyone had any prompts/ideas/missing scenes they'd like to see i can be found at captainsuke.tumblr.com , though i truly cant promise anything as i am the slowest writer  
> thankyou again!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Always been lucky](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14883959) by [westofnowhere](https://archiveofourown.org/users/westofnowhere/pseuds/westofnowhere)




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